


First of Her Name

by mercredigirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Female Friendship, Future Fic, Gen, Happy Ending, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:19:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercredigirl/pseuds/mercredigirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She reached Queen’s Landing before Daenerys, but she need have fretted over nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Queen’s Landing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azuire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azuire/gifts).



So many years later, she could barely remember the room, save as a vast chamber, large enough to dizzy a young girl from the North already half-giddy with fear and pain. She had heard the stories of the Dragon Queen, and wondered if Daenerys Stormborn thinks back on Vaes Dothrak the same. This return to Queen’s Landing, which she fled what seems a lifetime ago, was no true homecoming, even though it must be her home now.

She remembered the throne, though, as sharp in her memory as it must have been in life: a monstrosity of twisted metal, of power wrought in blood and iron. When she was a girl, she did not know whence power came. Now she has seen its price, and paid it many times over.

She reached Queen’s Landing before Daenerys, but she need have fretted over nothing. In the turmoil of a city bereft of rulers – for by then the Tyrell girl was dead, the lioness of Casterly Rock had fled home, and the lion’s daughter was a hostage in Dorne – she walked into the Red Keep as easily as breathing, wearing like a mantle not the air of grace she learnt from Petyr but that to the manner born, the manner which befit a daughter of Winterfell. ‘Lady Lannister,’ Lord Varys had called, but she simply walked past, cold as the day when she was stripped and beaten and not one of the high lords had intervened.

How would it be to set her eyes on the Iron Throne again, she had thought, all the way down the Queensroad from Riverrun. She dreamt of awaiting the Dragon Queen on the Iron Throne itself, as the Kingslayer had awaited her father. It is not what Lord Eddard would have done, but time had taught her that what was just, what was fair, was not necessarily what was most meet in the game of thrones. Fuck your sers, she had learnt, and what was honour beside that?

So she took with her Ser Jaime Goldenhand, and the blessed Maid of Tarth, and no one else, when she set stepping into that much hated room she barely recalled. Her gown was silk, as white as a septa’s, with grey pearls at hem and collar. Stark colours. Her colours.


	2. On the Black Sands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are perhaps the least seemly queens in all Westerosi history.

‘Your grace,’ says Daenerys, and a half-mocking smile is tugging at the corners of those soft pink lips. ‘Must I bend my knee to you now, sister?’

They are perhaps the least seemly queens in all Westerosi history, even though one grew up a princess-in-exile and the other was raised a highborn lady. On the black sands of Dragonstone they sit, feet bare and left in the saltwater for the crabs to nibble. A cool Dornish red, and bread with meat, and they are queens who eat like soldiers and laugh like carefree maids.

Sansa scoffs. ‘The bards who record your deeds will scarce believe that ever a Targaryen as proud as you would even offer fealty.’

‘The bards who record yours,’ Daenerys tells her solemnly, ‘would piss themselves imagining that that paragon of womanhood, Sansa of House Stark, could _accept_ my fealty clad in riding leathers.’

‘Of course not,’ says Sansa briskly. ‘Nary a braid in my hair – ’twould set a dreadful example for my court.’

‘Picture your husband with braided hair.’

‘Picture _yours_ , dear Dany.’

That wicked smile returns. ‘Now there you must needs learn your histories, sister, for my sun-and-stars died with his braided hair uncut.’

There is a brief silence at that. They have all lost close kin and distant kin, in the war that led them to Dragonstone’s shores. Fathers and mothers, brothers, sons. Then there is a great hallooing from behind them, and Jon Targaryen drops lightly upon his wife to snatch the wineskin from her small hand.

‘My lady wife and aunt! My sweet sister! Are you planning to return your realms to debaucheries and excess?’

‘A cunning plan,’ growls the Hound King, and Sansa giggles helplessly.

The songs will never tell of this, but for this night, and many nights after, though the high lords feud and make strife, though Sansa and Dany have headaches settling accounts and judging disputes and all the detritus of state affairs, the Queen in the North and the South and the Queen Beyond the Sea make do with sour wine and salted meat, and – once Lord Tyrion has returned from an errand upon which Dany sent him – the occasional game of cyvasse.


End file.
